Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (51 page)

André smiled as he saluted, though it was obvious this effort had blown the last of his strength.

“Wanted to have a talk with that bloody rifleman who marred my uniform, sir,” and he pointed at his shoulder.

Grey offered a smile and then gazed at the creek and shook his head.

“Order the men not to drink here,” he announced. “Send a well-guarded watering party upstream a few hundred yards. Captain, picket the bridge, make it look like you are trying to repair it, but go no further.”

“Sir?”

“This is only a diversion, young sir, remember that. Only a diversion. This army is moving east, not north.”

“Yes, sir.”

“André, I’m leaving you in charge. Mr. van Dorn, you stay with him.”

He smiled.

“You can translate if we bring in any prisoners here.”

Allen simply saluted but said nothing. “The army is set to move within the hour, to follow Knyphausen’s
division. Once we begin the move I’ll send word back for you to rejoin my ranks. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

Grey turned and rode back toward the village.

Allen watched him go, and then winced as a rifle ball cracked the air.

He looked back to the north. The riflemen and militia had stopped their retreat at the next farm, the flash of smoke from the shot drifting up from the upper floor of the barn.

“So it’s east, as you guessed,” André said, looking over at Allen, his voice hoarse.

Allen simply nodded.

If the army had indeed turned north here, Grey would have been pushing the advance far more aggressively. He was most likely under orders to drive the rebel militia and their prying eyes just far enough back so that the line of march was no longer in view.

If Grey were to turn north, Washington would know in short order. He was without doubt somewhere just to the north of them—perhaps in Princeton, maybe even just up the road ahead in Hightstown. There and waiting, with good water all around them, while this army, burdened down, with every bridge a point of contention, with every well and creek polluted, staggered under the sun.

At least this way, Washington would have to march too, if he were looking for a fight. And there was something in his heart that told Allen that was exactly what Washington would do. Things had changed since last autumn, when, at the mere approach of light infantry and cavalry, the American militia would disappear, and even their riflemen keep their distance.

Another puff of smoke. The fence railing that André was bracing himself against splintered. Cursing, he stepped back.

There was a distant taunt, and André, eyes glazed from heat and exhaustion, looked northward and for once did not have the appropriate quip.

“Come, John, let’s get you into the shade,” Allen suggested. André did not resist as he led him away from the bridge and along the riverbank, above where the offal and sheep’s head were stinking in the creek. He sat him down. A light infantry corporal approached, offering a canteen.

“Filled it far upstream, I did, sir,” the corporal announced. “It should be fresh.”

“Thank you. That’s most thoughtful of you,” Allen replied, glad to take the offering. The corporal looked at him with a bit of surprise, not having expected a courteous response.

André suddenly hunched over and vomited, then lay back, gasping, features pale.

Allen unbuttoned his uniform jacket. Underneath, his vest was buttoned and soaked with sweat, as was the finely made cotton shirt beneath.

He uncorked the canteen and sniffed the water. It was warm—not pleasant-smelling, but there was no rank odor.

“Come on, John, some of this now.”

“Champagne, I hope,” André tried to quip.

“Just drink.”

He took several gulps and gasped.

“Damn, are you trying to poison me?”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

Allen took the canteen and forced down several long gulps, then poured most of the rest of it onto André’s face and chest. The water was green with algae, brackish. He forced him to drink the rest of it.

He seemed to revive slightly.

“Now just stay here in the shade, I’ll see to things,” Allen said, and motioned for one of the light infantrymen who was sitting in the shade nearby to come over. He gave him the canteen and asked him to refill it and see to the officer.

The man, obviously nearly in the same condition as André, did as ordered, while Allen stood up and went back to the bridge, keeping low.

A light scattering of shots had resumed, but not of the intensity of before. His side would advance no farther, and it was as if the other side, sensing that, was now indulging in just a little harassing fire for the sport of it.

He stood up.

The horseman on the far side, about two hundred yards off, seemed to be studying him with his field glass. After several minutes the man waved. Allen returned the gesture and then rode off.

They must know now, he realized. He gazed up the road, shimmering in the morning heat.

Hightstown, about five miles off. From there, Trenton was just ten miles to the south and west. Ten miles and an eternity away.

He could see their militia now out in the open. With the skirmishing dying down, some were sitting in the shade, under trees or on the west side of the barn.

He wondered if any of them were his old neighbors and friends.

Leaving the bridge, he went back to sit by André’s side. His features were pale, waxy, eyes closed. For a fearful second, he thought he was dead.

“Passed out, he did,” the light infantryman keeping watch said.

Allen lay down by his side, the world suddenly hazy, spinning.

He had no sense whatsoever of the passage of time when, two hours later, someone shook his shoulder.

“Orders, sir, we’re pulling back, the army is moving out.”

Eyes gummy, he opened them.

André was sitting up by his side, features still pale.

“Come along, Allen,” André sighed, “another march awaits.”

Leaving the bridge behind, Allen looked back over his shoulder.

The militia were still there, sitting in the shade…and watching.

As the British started retreating, the militia slowly got up and began following.

Hightstown, New Jersey
3:00 PM, June 25, 1778

Von Steuben was exhausted as he rode into the village. Until now the war had pretty well bypassed this place, other than for some few foraging parties passing through during the winter campaign of a year and a half ago.

It was a crossing place for roads that came up from Allentown and Trenton, branching from there to Freehold to the east, Cranbury to the northeast, and Princeton and Hopewell to the north.

Several dozen militia were gathered outside the tavern in the center of the village, which was bisected by a clear, fresh running stream, water trickling over the face of a mill dam just east of the main road. The sound of the tumbling water was refreshing, and as he wearily dismounted he asked Vogel to take his horse down to the stream to water him. Azor left his master’s side and just plunged into the creek, splashing and rolling. Militiamen standing outside the tavern, laughing, offered the usual comments about the miniature horse.

Von Steuben walked stiffly up to the tavern. To his surprise, he didn’t even need to ask for a drink. One of the militia came out from the darkened interior, bearing a pewter mug, foaming beer dripping over the side.

“You the German, ain’t ya?” the host asked, and he nodded his thanks, taking the tankard and draining it in half a dozen gulps. He should have known better with this heat. The cool drink hit his stomach so that his head swam and he had to sit down on a bench, in the shade of the tavern’s front porch, the men laughing at his distress.

The same offer of beer was made for his escort of cavalry and staff, Du Ponceau and Walker. Von Steuben fished in his jacket pocket, feeling the Continentals but at last finding a couple of Dutch coppers. He pulled them out and asked the innkeeper if they might have another round. Pleased with the offer of real money, the man scurried inside.

The militia stationed here were, typical of militia, boasting about how they were ready for a fight. If need be, they would drop the bridge in the center of town, and then knock out the mill dam, find a couple of old horses or dried-up cows, take them upstream, shoot them, and push them in. A barrier of upended carts and wagons blocked a low crest a hundred yards south of the stream. Another barrier was up on the north side of the bank.

Tactically, he could see it would be an excellent place for Washington’s army to make a stand, if they could come down here in time, and if this should be the route of the enemy advance.

The militia actually seemed to be looking forward to their task of destruction. Obviously, they had never been in a fight before.

Von Steuben took the second tankard of beer, was about to drink it, and then saw Vogel slowly walking up from the streambed, leading their mounts. He stood up, went over, and gave the stein to his servant, who nodded, barely able to croak out a thank-you.

“Riders coming in!”

The cry echoed from the barrier at the south side of the village. Friedrich looked up and his heart quickened. It was Dan Morgan, trailed by several of his riflemen.

In the searing heat he was riding at a trot, and once clear of the barrier he tried to urge his mount to a gallop, but the beast was played out.

Seeing von Steuben in front of the tavern, Dan stood in his stirrups.

“It’s east! They’re going east!”

He reined in by von Steuben’s side, his horse lathered, panting for breath, and dismounted.

“Someone give him a beer!” As if by magic the innkeeper was out, holding up a tankard. Morgan grasped it and tilted his head back, drinking deeply, half of the beer cascading down the front of his jacket.

“Would have sold my soul for that half an hour back,” Morgan gasped, holding the tankard back out to the innkeeper.

“You sure they ain’t comin’ here?” the innkeeper asked nervously.

“No. They’re running east.”

“Thank you, God,” the innkeeper cried. Some of the militiamen cursed,
mostly the younger ones, but it was obvious that more than a few were without doubt relieved that the war was not coming to their town.

“How certain are you?” Walker asked, even as von Steuben pulled his map back out.

“Damn certain,” Morgan replied angrily. “You think I’d come back if I wasn’t certain?”

“Tell me,” von Steuben asked, and he held the map before Dan.

“They skirmished us out to the bridge, about two miles north of Allentown. But came no farther,” Dan announced, pointing out the position on the map. The innkeeper came out with a refilled tankard, and Dan took it, now using it to gesture at the map, spilling some of it on the paper.

“They sat there about two hours or so, didn’t push farther. That had me pretty well decided then, but I wanted to be sure. They finally started to pull back. I rode about a mile east, crossed the creek through some woods, came out on the far side with my men, and we pushed back a dozen or so of their dragoons. Finally gained a good view of the road between Allentown and Imlaystown and it was packed. Not with wagons but their infantry. Moving slow but definitely moving.”

“Could be a feint nevertheless,” von Steuben ventured.

Dan shook his head as if insulted.

“Picked up a few more of their deserters, also dropped one of the dragoons, and captured him, and he talked before he died. They all said the same thing. What clinched it was a boy slipped out of the village. Brave lad, claimed he overheard a couple of officers saying they were glad to be getting the hell out without a fight. That it was full marching gear, fall in, and head east. I then circled back toward Allentown. Wagons are packing the road, but only a light guard of infantry and dragoons, no artillery, which was also on the road east. I tell you, von Steuben, it is east for certain.”

He did not need any more convincing. Though Morgan might not think much of him, he knew the reputation of this man as a scout.

He grinned.

“I’ll take it back to the general now.”

Morgan looked at him, back at his horse, and then at von Steuben again.

“I need another beer. Another half a dozen beers. I’m as parched as the plains of hell.”

Von Steuben folded the map back up, motioned for Vogel to mount up, and did likewise. He looked at his cavalry escorts. For every step he rode, they had
ridden two, constantly circling back and forth, galloping ahead if they suspected an ambush. They were as played out as Morgan.

Du Ponceau, ever eager, was already on his mount. Walker set down his tankard and mounted as well.

He set off, and though he knew he might be pressing his mount beyond its limits on this hellish day, he forced it to a gallop.

Before dark, General Washington must have this news. He could picture it so clearly now; a classic maneuver was in the offing. An exhausted and increasingly demoralized enemy, strung out on a single road, and the coiled fist of an army, eager for a fight, smashing into its middle.

It just might be the victory that could win the war…and he would be right in the middle of it.

The Road from Cranbury to Englishtown, New Jersey
3:00 PM, June 27, 1778

A thunderstorm was building with magnificent intensity to the west, the distant rumble almost like that of artillery. But if there was to be any artillery fire this day, it would be to the east, ahead of him…a sound he had hoped to hear by now.

George Washington, with a strong patrol of cavalry in escort, swept ahead, riding in silence, wrapped in thought. And now he was assailed with the first inkling of doubt since this campaign had begun barely a week ago.

The road was rough-worn, clay on the high ground giving way to sandy loam as it dropped down into broad ravines cut by meandering creeks. The signs of an army having marched on it earlier in the day were evident; deep ruts had been cut by heavy artillery. There was the churned-up dust from the passage of thousands of men. Here and there, men lay under the shade of a tree or had collapsed along the bank of a creek. Those who still cared struggled to their feet at the sight of his approach, holding up small pieces of paper, notes of permission to fall from the ranks. Others just lay gazing at him, comatose. More than a few had died from exhaustion, flies already swarming about them. Dozens of played-out horses stood alongside the road, lathered with sweat, trembling, some having found a creek to lie down and roll in…and more than a few of these were dead in those streams as well.

The heat was killing—as bad as, or worse than, the hottest days back in Virginia. At least at Mount Vernon there had always been the stirring of a breeze off of the broad Potomac to cool the afternoon air. On days of such heat in the afternoon he would call his laborers in from the fields, while he
himself would retire to the front veranda of his home, to wait for the cool of evening to resume work.

War took no such pity on men or beast.

He worried for his own mount, could feel the way it trembled, its footing not sure. As the road dipped down into another ravine, a muddy ford ahead, he dismounted. Billy Lee and his staff did the same.

A young lieutenant was sitting on the ground under the shade of a willow, features ghostly pale, shaking as if taken with a chill. Beside him lay another soldier, the man older, and obviously dead.

The lieutenant looked up, saw his general, and tried to rise, but could not. Washington extended a hand to him, gesturing for him to remain where he was.

“Stay seated, lad.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m so sorry,” the lieutenant gasped, and began to cry. Washington handed the reins of his horse to Billy Lee. No need to tell him to make sure the horses drank slowly so they wouldn’t get cramps.

He walked over to the lieutenant and knelt down by his side, motioning for one of his staff to come over and help the lad, who strangely had not stripped down but was still in his heavy uniform jacket. Hamilton helped the boy to peel the jacket off his sweat-soaked body, took the boy’s hat, stepped into the stream, filled it with tepid, muddy water, and then poured it down the lad’s back and chest. The boy continued to shiver, and Hamilton repeated the effort.

With that the boy turned to one side and vomited, and continued to cry.

“I’m so sorry, sir, I couldn’t keep up. Captain Jacobs told me to fall out and to keep an eye on old man Parker,” and he nodded to the corpse, flies already covering the dead man’s face despite his best efforts to shoo them away. “But Parker died. I’m so sorry.”

“Just lie back in the shade, Lieutenant,” Washington replied soothingly, and stood back up, looking at Hamilton, who shook his head. He could see the boy was badly sunstruck and should be in a hospital, not alone out here.

It tore at his heart. If he detailed off a man to stay with every soldier who had collapsed along this road, he would be alone and then finally have to stop himself. He had to push on, no matter what the human cost.

Billy Lee had finished watering the horses. Pulling up some weeds and rushes from the streambed, he wiped the lathered sweat off of them, talking softly to the animals. It was ironic that they were, of course, receiving more attention than this stricken lad.

Major Laurens came over and knelt by the boy’s side.

“You see this a lot where I come from in South Carolina, sir,” Laurens drawled. “Let’s get his body into the stream, but keep his head on the bank. The water should cool him a bit, and with luck he’ll pull through.”

Laurens lifted the boy up, waded into the stream, and laid him down. He did not hesitate to raise the body of the dead man, peel off his blanket roll and canteen, and use the blanket roll as a pillow to prop the boy’s head up. Then he sloshed upstream a few dozen feet, filled the canteen, came back, and set it into the hands of the lieutenant.

“Lieutenant, keep drinking that water. You’ll puke it up but it will pull the heat out of your body when you do. Just keep drinking and you should feel better in an hour or two.”

The boy had nearly passed out from the shock of the water and was shaking uncontrollably.

Washington stepped back, touched by the gentle compassion Laurens showed. The major lowered his head, held the boy’s hand, which was grasping the canteen, whispered a prayer with him, then stood back up.

Washington looked back at his mount, Billy Lee nodding that they were ready to move on.

“My prayers are with you, Lieutenant,” he said, his words sounding hollow even to him. He turned, went back to his horse, and mounted. Billy Lee, ever prepared, handed over a canteen to the general.

“Sir, a long drink here in the shade before we set off will be good for you.”

He nodded his thanks, taking the proffered canteen, and began to drain it down.

“Slowly, sir,” Billy Lee whispered, “else you’ll get sick from it.”

He did as suggested and handed the canteen back.

Without another word he urged his mount across the ford, sparing a quick glance back at the lieutenant.

“Rather far gone, sir,” Laurens sighed, “but he might pull through. I’ve seen worse.”

“I pray we will see him back in the ranks again,” was all he could say in reply.

Six months ago that same boy had been most likely freezing to death, praying for just a bit of warmth. And now what he would have given for just a flurry of snow or a piece of ice. How strange war is at times. The general sighed as he pressed on down the road.

Turning a bend in the road, they saw the small village of Englishtown
directly ahead, and he felt a surge of frustration. Men by the hundreds were out in the fields and orchards, nearly every last one on the ground, huddled under any shade they could find. Along the bank of a narrow creek, little more than a ditch, men by the score were in the water, just sitting. Muskets, cartridge boxes, packs, and jackets were piled up on shore. It was not what he had expected at all.

He urged his horse up to a trot and came into the center of town. Half a dozen artillery pieces were parked to the side, horses not in their traces. Several company-size units were slowly marching along, heads lowered, men panting, not even noticing or responding as their general rode by. On the shaded front deck of a tavern he saw the man he was searching for and rode toward him. General Charles Lee was sitting in a straight-back chair, surrounded by staff, all of them holding tankards. At the sight of Washington’s approach they stood up, Lee coming down the few steps, snapping to attention, and offering a salute.

“A pleasure to see you, sir,” Lee announced. Those around him hurriedly buttoned up their uniform jackets, put on their hats, and then just as quickly removed them with a flourish of salute.

Washington returned the salute with a nod and a touch of the brim of his hat and dismounted.

“A drink, sir, to cool you?” Lee offered.

He shook his head.

“We need to talk,” Washington announced coolly. Lee motioned for them to go into the tavern, but he refused, turning to walk instead around the side of the building, stopping at last beneath an apple tree out back.

“I thought this army was moving to attack now, today,” Washington said.

Lee looked him straight in the eye and sighed.

“Sir, the situation does not yet present itself.”

“How is that?”

The owner of the tavern had set a table and chairs under the tree. Those occupying the place gave way and retreated at the sight of the two generals.

Washington sat down in one of the chairs, and the innkeeper hurried out to serve him.

“Sir, an honor, sir,” he gasped, sweat beading his face. “May I offer you some cooling refreshment?”

“Cool cider, please, if you have some?”

“Most certainly, sir. Straight from the springhouse.” The man waddled off, returning a moment later with a wooden tray and half a dozen tankards.
Washington took one up, sipped it, and struggled not to sigh. It was indeed cool, almost cold. He removed his hat and took the liberty of unbuttoning his jacket, letting it open up to the still, humid air, which held more than a hint of the approaching storm from the west.

Laurens, Hamilton, and some of Lee’s staff came to join them. Laurens, without being asked, produced a map of the area and spread it on the table, using a couple of the tankards to anchor the corners.

“Now, please explain why this army is not moving.”

“Because the British have not moved.”

“What?”

“Sir, their second division, under the direct command of Cornwallis, is but six miles from here.” Lee pointed to the east.

“Why are you not pressing in as originally ordered?”

“Because I am following your orders, sir,” Lee replied.

Washington looked closely at the man, and again he felt doubt. Lafayette would have pressed on, even if nine out of every ten men he commanded had collapsed from the heat.

Lafayette originally had been in command of this, his advance guard of five thousand infantry, nearly all his cavalry, and two batteries of artillery. He had decided to keep the army in two divisions just as the British were now doing.

Washington had sent Lafayette forward with his own advance guard of five thousand, while his own reduced supply train, and his remaining command of eight thousand, were, at this moment, resting at Cranbury, five miles east of Hightstown. There was still the chance that Clinton would push Cornwallis due north at the last minute and try to strike for Brunswick. The advance by Lafayette was to shadow that, and even to act as bait if the British should scout them out and decide to attack what they might think was an inferior force.

If so, he could be on their flank with his main force in less than three hours while Lafayette held them. If, on the other hand, the British continued to retreat to the east, Knyphausen would have to move first, and like an accordion their line of march would stretch outward before Cornwallis, burdened with their supply train in front and around him, along with the Loyalist refugees. If that happened Lafayette was ordered to attack with everything he had, even though outnumbered. Then he would bring up the main bulk of the army to fall on the British flank.

Lafayette was not the most capable of his tactical commanders on the
field, but he was, by far, the most eager and aggressive, and when Washington had given him the assignment, he knew that the young man would seek any opportunity to strike.

And then, last night, General Lee, to whom he had first offered the command of the advance guard, and who had refused it, saying that it was not befitting his rank and that he preferred to be with the main army, had suddenly reversed his decision, appealing for the opportunity to lead the advance. By so doing, he had hoped to lay to rest once and for all the rumors of his behavior when taken prisoner and held in captivity.

Lee had reinforced his argument, and the man could indeed be persuasive, by pointing out his superior rank. He said that his long years of experience in the British Army and even his personal acquaintance with Clinton and Cornwallis would give him an advantage.

Much to Lafayette’s chagrin, Washington had to agree with Lee, and ordered him forward to take the command.

But now?

There were the seeds of doubt as to his decision. All appeared too relaxed, languid, torpid under this scorching heat. The marshes of the region were a breeding place for mosquitoes and annoying horseflies, which now swarmed around them. Lee swatted at them while with his other hand he pointed out the positions on the map.

“Clinton has gone to ground here, west of Monmouth, on good, high ground with clear fields of fire, as if awaiting us. It is very good ground, sir, for them—and I caution against an assault. They have not moved since this time yesterday.”

“Have they constructed fortifications and abatis?”

Lee laughed and shook his head.

“In this heat? No, sir. I think they simply turned, hoping we’d rush into the attack, but also to rest out for this day.”

“And Knyphausen?”

“He is four miles away on the far side of Monmouth.”

“Has he moved at all?”

“The same, sir. No, though some of the wagons have been pushed forward under heavy cavalry guard, heading toward the Monmouth Heights and the harbor at Sandy Hook. It is definite that they are now heading toward the shore there for transport.”